That’s what I am doing, in fact, when Reid arrives. Today he’s fallen way off the casual clothes wagon, as in he has set the wagon on fire and spit on the ashes, because he’s wearing a suit. Dark blue, almost black. Slim cut. White shirt, gray tie. A gray messenger bag crossing his chest.

Wall Street Reid.

It shouldn’t really be a surprise. Reid picked the day and time, coordinating with a meeting he mentioned having in the area, and it makes sense that the meeting would have to do with his fancy job. But somehow it still startles me to see him this way, and it’s almost as though he knows it, because for a few seconds after nodding a greeting he simply stands, looking up at the still, serious, sewing man.

I clutch my list so tightly it’s nearly folded in half in my hand. “Neat, right?” I finally say, moving to stand beside him. “Is this your first time seeing it?”

“No.” He looks over at me, then turns his head to stare across Seventh. “There’s a bridal shop over there I’ve been to.”

He hasn’t said it with any malice, but it’s possible we’ve released some kind of awkward nerve gas into the air. Everyone within a half-mile radius probably pauses where they stand and winces.

“Right,” I say, hoping my whole head hasn’t turned into the cringe emoji. “Lots of bridal shops and fabric shops around here.” The strangeness of our agreement, of our being together in any context at all, washes over me again, and part of me wants to bolt, to forget the whole thing.

I’m jolted by the shoulder of a passing pedestrian, part of a small group of tourists who are laughing and staring down at one of their phones, and when I bump into Reid’s side from the impact, he steadies me with a hand on my elbow and snaps, “Watch it, asshole,” at the pedestrian. I’m pretty sure the guy doesn’t hear him, but the line is enough of a surprise to shake me out of my inhibitions.

“Whoa,” I say, my eyes wide as I look up at Reid. “You called that guy an asshole!”

That flush I waited for the other night in the shop—it shows up now, faintly, right at the outer swoop of Reid’s cheekbones.

“I mean, I don’t imagine you saying a word like asshole.” He furrows his brow, so I clarify. “I thought your insults would be—I don’t know. ‘Rogue.’ ‘Scoundrel.’” Old-timey.

“Why would they be like that?” His voice is still flat, but his eyes are interested, and his hand is definitely still on my elbow, which is a brand-new erogenous zone I’ve never known about.

I shrug, dislodging his hand. Probably I shouldn’t share the Masterpiece Theatre thing. “You sounded like a New Yorker.”